


Love Under Will

by EileenDover



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Violence, Briarhearts (Elder Scrolls), Cicero is a creep, Dark Brotherhood (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Dirty Thoughts, Dubious Consent, F/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rorikstead (Elder Scrolls), Vouyerism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EileenDover/pseuds/EileenDover
Summary: Eawynn is Breton a mage from Markarth, a College of Winterhold dropout, and the newest member of the Dark Brotherhood. However, she quickly learns that her new position as Listener comes with more responsibilities than she had bargained for, and the eccentric Cicero is all too willing to see that she fulfills them. But is the price that Sithis demands too high?This is a Listener/Keeper smut fic. Hold on to your butts, and let me take you on a wild adventure! (Note: I’ll be adding tags as I add each chapter!)
Relationships: Cicero/Female Breton Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Cicero/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Cicero/Female Listener (Elder Scrolls), Cicero/Listener (Elder Scrolls), Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Erik the Slayer
Kudos: 21





	1. The Contract

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I love writing Cicero. He’s such a weirdo. And if you make it past the first part of this story, then you absolutely know what direction we’re headed in. <3 kisses!

Cicero checked the hallway to make sure that nobody had seen him. When the Jester was sure that the coast was clear, he opened the creaking, wooden door and slipped inside. He didn’t have much time.

The room was little more than a broom closet, but for the last month it had become his sanctuary— a secret temple where he would worship his Listener. Balancing on a barrel in the corner of the room, he lifted himself up to the top of the wall. On the beam rested a few small sacks. Cicero took one in both hands and moved it to the side, before pressing his face to a small hole in the top of the wall. His view of the room on the other side was strategic, giving him a perfect view of the bed. He sat, and he waited. It wasn’t long before his Listener opened the door to her room.

The Jester watched, enthralled. She walked towards her bed with a sigh, paused, then turned back to the door and locked it behind her. Standing by her desk, she shuffled some papers, put one hand on her hip, and massaged her forehead. 

“ _If Cicero were there,_ ” the Jester thought, “ _he would rub the Listener’s head for her._ ” 

Taking out the pin that fastened her bun in place, she let her wavy, dark locks fall down her back. The Jester loved it when she let her hair down— it was something that she didn’t do in front of anyone but him. His cock began to twitch as he thought about burying his face in her tresses, inhaling her scent. In his mind he was running his fingers through it, grabbing a handful in his fist, then yanking her head up as she choked on his cock. Such pretty hair. 

Without ceremony, the Listener fell face-down on the bed. She stayed like that, unmoving, before letting out a groan and rolling over onto her back. Cicero thought for a moment she was going to take a nap, but instead she began to trace her hand along the low neckline of her dress. The Jester watched as her fingers trailed over her bosom, rubbing at his swelling member in his britches. He could feel her urges, her longing to be filled. Looking down to watch the tent in his pants grow, he admired the effect the Breton woman had on him. 

Quickly, Cicero put his eye back to the hole. She had freed her ample breasts from the dress, and was now toying with a pert, pink nipple. It responded to her touch, hardening as she pinched it between her fingers. The Jester licked his lips. From behind the wall he pulled his cock out, squeezing it just as she squeezed herself. He could feel his shaft harden as the blood rushed to it, a familiar feeling whenever he looked at the Listener. Now though, it was time to indulge. He pressed his face closer to the hole in the wall.

The Listener closed her eyes and pulled her knees up, lifting the hem of her grey dress over her spreading legs. Cicero had the perfect view as he watched the Listener part her folds. She circled her clit with a finger, while Cicero tugged at his length. He watched her face as she pleasured herself, enjoying the way she responded to her own touch. Here in the temple it was easy to let his mind wander. He imagined what her bud would feel like between his teeth, and wondered how deep his long tongue could probe into her. He licked his lips again, thinking about tasting her. The Jester was beginning to salivate.

He heard a soft moan escape her throat as her circles became a slow rhythm. Cicero let his hand motion echo hers, running his hand up and down his length to pull at the head. He wondered what she was thinking about, what kind of fantasies ran through her head as she played with herself. Were they simple, tame musings about sweet kisses and gentle fucks? The Jester smiled as she dipped her middle finger inside her cunt, then ran it in down to moisten her ass. No, Cicero knew his Listener was a dirty, _filthy_ girl.

Returning her fingers to her slit, she curled one of them up inside of her. The Jester felt his heart beat faster and grabbed his shaft at its root, delighting in his own hardness. Listener wanted it, and he would give it to her. She returned to rubbing her clit again, her breasts rising and falling as her breathing grew heavier. Cicero began to make short thrusts with his hips as he jerked his cock, imagining himself on top of her, but inverted. How beautiful it would be to fuck her mouth while he lapped at her quim, his tongue penetrating her in ways her fingers could not. One day soon he would show her.

His dick was throbbing as he moved his hand faster in time with hers, his grip tightening when she started to finger herself again. He was leaking precum now. Running his thumb over his tip to coat himself, the Jester imagined the wetness was her nectar. The next noise she made was a breathy groan, and the sound of it alone almost made him cum. Quickly, he dropped his cock, letting his excitement ebb. This was part of his ritual. The Keeper would climax with the Listener, as he always did.

Cicero never had to wait too long. The Listener was efficient. Her breath was coming in shorter gasps as her fingers curled in, hitting the spot he knew gave her the greatest pleasure. One day he would find it, and make her scream his name. 

The Listener’s release overtook her, and she cried out, her shapely legs shaking. Cicero came with her, but in silence— never once taking his eyes off her. He gritted his teeth and pumped his cock for her, shooting sticky ropes all over the wall in front of him. He made a silent vow that soon he would fill her with it. Yes, her every hole would drip with his seed. 

She didn’t let herself bask long in the afterglow. With a sigh, she pulled herself up, searching her nightstand for a rag to clean up with. Cicero loved watching the Breton wipe herself, and he kept his eye glued to the hole as he hiked up his pants and tucked his shirt in. Then he buckled his doublet and hopped off the barrel, almost tripping as he clamoured for the door.

* * *

Eawynn pinned her dark hair back up and left her room, smoothing out any stray hairs and adjusting the skirts of her dress. Most days she felt like she had a craving, a hunger that she could never quell, no matter how hard she tried. It was as if a part of her was missing, and no matter how she tried to fill it, she was always left empty. She’d had plenty of generous lovers in the past, but no matter how good the sex was it always rang hollow in the end. After a string of miserably failed relationships and poorly chosen partners, the Breton had given up. What she really wanted now was a good fuck, but for the moment she’d have to settle for her fingers. 

It’s not that she wasn’t attracted to anyone in the Dark Brotherhood— Nazir had definitely caught her eye, his deep voice never failed to send shivers down her spine. However, she wasn’t sure he felt the same about her, and she didn’t fancy embarrassing herself in front of her boss. There was also something mysterious and alluring about Gabriella, but Eawynn was worried the Dunmer would want to bring her pet spider along, the thought of which sent an entirely different kind of shiver down her spine. There were also a few times when she swore that Astrid and Arnbjorn had tried to proposition her, but everything about sleeping with the guild leader and her werewolf husband seemed like a bad idea. Eawynn might be horny, but she wasn’t stupid. 

Then there was Cicero...

The Breton was so lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the Jester as she turned the corner. She made an exclamation of surprise as she bumped off his chest.

“ _Gods!_ Oh, Cicero! It’s only you,” she breathed, hoping he hadn’t heard what she’d been doing in her room. “Did you... need anything?” 

Cicero’s eyes flicked lazily down her body, and his thin lips widened to a smile. 

“The Listener is so kind to ask, but no. Cicero was just... lost in his thoughts,” he waved his hand in a theatrical gesture. Sometimes the Jester had an air about him that made her uneasy, but he was always cordial, even if his mannerisms were a little eccentric. “If the Listener needs an escort, the Keeper would be _more_ than happy to walk her to a destination of her choosing.”

“I was just going to talk to Nazir about the next contract,” she looked down, fairly confident that he, in fact, _had_ heard.

“Ooooh, a new contract! What fun. Maybe this time the Listener will bring her Cicero along,” he giggled, keeping pace with her. “Cicero will carry the Listener’s luggage, sort out travel arrangements and accommodations, reserve tables at all of Skyrim’s finest taverns, even massage the Listener’s tired little feet before going to bed.” 

“That doesn’t sound very fun for you,” she said, continuing down the hall. Eawynn liked to travel alone. She enjoyed the freedom, solitude, and being able to hear her own thoughts. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to travel with such a chatty companion… Did Cicero talk in his sleep? He _must._

“Oh, but it would be _such_ fun! Cicero _lives_ to serve. Please say yes,” he begged. He hunched himself over so he walked at her eye level, wringing his hands in front of him. “Cicero will be good, he promises!”

“Maybe next time, I’m sorry,” she said. Strange as Cicero was, a part of Eawynn also found him endearing. She knew it was only a matter of time before she caved in to his requests to join her. For Dark Brotherhood business though, she needed to focus— and the Jester was nothing if not distracting. The thought of getting to know him better was tempting, though. What kind of secrets did the strange fool hide?

Cicero followed at her heels like a faithful hound, cooing to her about this and that. Other members of the Brotherhood often lost their temper with the Jester, but Eawynn always treated him kindly. The two of them were joined through their sacred positions— Keeper and Listener, loyal servants of the Night Mother. In that respect, the Breton shared a connection with Cicero that none of the others did. 

The first time Eawynn had heard the silken voice of Sithis, it was like hearing the sound of death itself. Whenever he spoke to her, it felt like an oily, whispering tendril was working its way into her ear. The experience was unsettling, upsetting in a way she couldn’t explain. Even just the thought of it made Eawynn shiver— but Cicero had always understood. In fact, he revered her for it, almost worshipping her. The Jester made her feel accepted in a way none of the others could, because he too was bound to Sithis. One day she’d have to let the poor fool know just how thankful she was for the kindnesses he’d always shown her. For now though, he had to stay home.

They found Nazir seated at his usual table, his deep amber eyes turning to her as she walked in. 

“Hello Nazir,” Eawynn greeted him. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Listener,” he said in that deep, smooth voice of his. “A new contract has just come in. This time it’s for a Kahjit named Ma'randru-jo— a traveling merchant, last seen around Morthal.”

“But Morthal is so _far_ ,” she grumbled. She had just come back from Windhelm and had hoped for a hit a little closer to home.

“Is that a problem?” the Redguard asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” she said more seriously. Everyone around here was so dour all the time. Everyone that is, except the Jester.

“The Listener will surely get lonely on such a long journey,” his voice called from behind her.

Nazir raised a finger, “Now, _that_ is a good idea,” he nodded, “Listener, why don’t you take the Keeper with you this time? The Kahjit travels in a large caravan, and it could be useful to have a second pair of eyes on the target.” 

Eawynn rolled her eyes inwardly. She knew Nazir was trying to get the Jester out of the Sanctuary for a bit. Hell, the other Brotherhood members had probably put him up to this. Yes, Cicero could occasionally be annoying and problematic, but he was the Keeper. He belonged with the Night Mother. 

“Won’t Mother get lonely?” she asked the Jester, but he didn’t hear. He was too busy dancing away.

“Oh, what _joy!_ What _happy_ day! The Keeper and the Listener, off on a merry adventure!” He clicked his heels together as he hopped down the stairs, “What to pack, what to pack! Knives? Oh yes, we shall need _plenty_ of knives…” As his voice faded out, Eawynn massaged her forehead and leaned on the table.

“I guess that settles that,” Nazir said, then placed his hand on hers, “Thank you for doing this. We all just need a little break from him.” 

“I… It’s no problem, I understand. I’m sure it’ll be fun,” she said, and he pulled his hand away. She turned, hoping he didn’t notice her blushing. 

* * *

Cicero hefted up the large pack as he trailed behind the Listener. She was trotting along on a sturdy dappled grey stallion. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to ride with me? There’s plenty of room up here on Sweetroll,” she called back to him.

“Cicero is sure,” he called back. Just thinking about riding behind the Keeper had made his cock start to swell. _Down, get down!_ This wasn’t the right time.

“I’m just saying, let me know when you get tired,” the Listener said with a smile.

“The Keeper likes to walk!” he yelled out, trying to convince himself. He couldn’t help it. The thought of pressing his erect shaft into her lower back as they rocked back and forth in the saddle was too much. He imagined slipping one of his hands down her top while rubbing her clit with the other. “ _Yes, yes. Just like that_ ,” he murmured, lost in his thoughts. 

They were making good time following the Imperial road, and had just passed the Half-Moon Mill on Lake Linalta. He’d been hard for so long that his cock had begun to hurt, so he turned his eyes to the landscape. It had been the first time in months that he’d left the Sanctuary, and he shielded his eyes from the sun. 

The Listener had decided to travel west through Rorikstead, rather than going to Whiterun then cutting across. He had reminded her about the Forsworn bandits that pillaged the Reach, but she had simply said, “I hate the snow,” which the Jester found completely illogical for someone who lived in Skyrim. 

By the time they rounded the north side of the lake, Cicero’s feet ached, and he had already sung every song he knew- twice. The Listener pulled her stallion off to the side, leading it to a small pond to drink. Cicero was thankful to take a break, and he sat down near a rocky outcrop.

“We can put the big rucksack on Sweetroll, you know,” the Listener said to him, tying up the horse to a tree. “Are you sure you won’t ride with me?”

“Cicero likes to help,” he sang, hoping his cheerful tone would mask the pain he was in. They’d been walking almost six hours by now. “How much farther away is Rorikstead?” he asked through a forced smile. 

“We’re almost halfway there— that is, if we don’t run into any problems along the way,” she was looking up at the sky, shading her face with her hands. Cicero thought how beautiful she looked with the sun in her hair. He really should get out of the Sanctuary more often, especially if it meant spending more time with the Listener.

His mind wandered back to the first time they’d met— it’d been a day not unlike this one. He and Mother had been traveling outside Whiterun, when their old carriage had broken an axle. At first, the incident had sent him into a blind rage, but when he saw The Listener- Eawynn, as she’d introduced herself then, he knew the broken wheel had been foreordained by Sithis. On that day she had shown him such kindness, convincing a horrid local farmer to help them fix it. It was in that exact moment Cicero had known that their fates were bound together. He’d even told Mother about how one day their paths would cross again. Oh, how he had ached for that day to come. And now, here they were! The Listener and her Keeper. He was so excited he started to hum.

“Just give me this,” the Listener was saying, tugging on his knapsack. Cicero froze as she slid her hand down his arm, taking the bag off his shoulders. “You can carry it again when we get to Rorikstead.”

“The Listener is so kind to poor Cicero,” he wrung his hands, “how will he _ever_ thank her?”

“You can thank me by getting on the damn horse,” she said, untying the stallion and hoisting herself up into the saddle. Cicero had no choice but to obey. He would do anything his Listener wanted, she only had to ask. Hitching his foot in the stirrup, he settled himself in behind her. They were close— _oh, so close._ He reminded himself to stay calm, and held onto her waist while she clicked the beast into a trot.

The closeness. The rubbing. The bouncing up and down. Cicero was rock hard before he knew it. Now though, he didn’t try to hide it from the Listener. After all, it was she who had invited him to share her seat. He pushed against her, grinding his hips in time with the horse’s gait. In his mind she was bent over, tied to the broken axle of their carriage, while his length slid slowly between her thighs. _Oh, he knew how wet she could get—_

“Cicero,” the Listener broke his meditation without turning around, “what are you thinking about?”

“Oh, just reminiscing about the day he met the Listener,” he replied innocently. It wasn’t exactly a lie, per se. 

“That day outside of Whiterun with the wagon wheel?” she asked, still facing forward. 

“The Listener remembers!!” he shouted, giving her waist a squeeze. He wanted to kiss her, but no— not yet. He must wait for the sign. “That happy, blessed day is etched on Cicero’s heart for all of eternity.”

“Yes, well. I could certainly never forget someone like you,” she said, finally turning her head enough to look at him out of the side of her eye. 

“Oh, precious, _perfect_ Listener,” he sang. He knew from the moment they’d met that Sithis had planned their union. Humble Cicero had been a loyal servant— and patient. _So_ patient. He knew that one day Sithis would reward him. He could feel it in his bones, in his very _marrow._ The day of their joining was close at hand.

* * *

The Jester’s hard cock had been pressing into her back for three hours, on and off. 

At first, Eawynn thought she had imagined it. It must be a dagger or potion he had stashed in his pants. Soon though, she noticed that he was pushing into her in time with the horse’s gait. Was the Jester… humping her? The Breton wasn’t sure how to react to this. Initially, she had been upset, but then she remembered how close they were. She reminded herself that Cicero was, indeed, a fool. A kind of simpleton, really. It was probably an innocent mistake. In any case, there were plenty of men who might find himself hard in his situation.

Cicero was not, however, like most other men. Eawynn wasn’t sure if he’d ever shared his bed with anyone, besides the mummified corpse of the Night Mother. If she had hoped to get to know the secretive Jester better on this trip, then so far it’d been an eye-opening journey. Eawynn had never even thought of him as having any sexual drive before, and yet here he was. Hard as a rock for hours. If she was being honest, the whole experience had made her a little horny. She could feel her wetness seeping out, knowing that her undergarments probably had a wet spot on them from where she was leaking. Concentrating on the road ahead, the Breton tightened her legs around Sweetroll, trying not to imagine what the Imperial’s cock looked like.

The Jester had started to doze off around the time they reached Gjukar’s monument. His light snores were so adorable that Eawynn almost felt bad to wake him.

“Cicero…,” she slowed Sweetroll to a slow walk and turned her head, “Cicero, wake up.”

“ _Soon, my sweet,_ ” he murmured, blinking his eyes open. “Oh, Listener! A thousand apologies, lazy Cicero dozed off! Wait… This isn’t Rorickstead.” His eyes narrowed. “Where are we?” 

“Look over there,” she pointed to the west. 

The sun was setting dramatically over Bard’s Leap Summit, breaking through the clouds and painting the sky in dramatic hues of red, orange, and purple. Way in the distance, at the mountains beyond, a lonely dragon flew through the sky.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Eawynn stole a glance at Cicero, bathed in the golden light of sunset. His Imperial profile was dignified, with a long, aquiline nose, thin, wide lips and high cheekbones. The Breton was surprised at how noble she suddenly found him, especially now that he wasn’t talking.

She shook her head and turned back to the view. The two of them looked on in silence as they took in the scene, until Eawynn decided it was time to get moving again. 

The Jester’s voice was low as he asked, “Why did the Listener want Cicero to see that?” 

“Well, your job as Keeper keeps you cooped up underground,” she said. “I guess I just thought the sunset would be a nice memory to look back on, for when you’re back in the Sanctuary. You know, a keepsake of our first adventure together.”

Cicero said nothing to this, but his arms around her waist tightened ever so slightly. 

They didn’t make it to Rorikstead until well past midnight. The whole town was Quiet, so she took the liberty of tying Sweetroll up at the stable. After making sure their horse had plenty of food and water, they left to find the inn. Cicero was strangely quiet, holding his knapsack to his chest as he followed her up the road.

When they reached Frostfruit Inn, Eawynn discovered exactly why the town was so quiet— everyone was at the tavern, and they were all drunk. Inside the fire was roaring, and it was surprisingly busy for this time of night. It’d been a while since the Breton enjoyed a night out, but unfortunately this wasn’t the time nor the place. She did, however, think she deserved a beverage after the day’s long journey. Maybe there was even someone in this small town who could warm her bed... Eawynn eyed an older, bald Nord with an impressive mustache, but she quickly ruled him out after she saw him vomit in a potted plant. No, tonight she would sleep alone.

Cicero trailed behind her as the Breton navigated through the crowd. She made her way towards the counter to talk to the innkeeper. He was a strikingly handsome Nord, youthful, with light, braided hair and a closely cropped beard. His studded leather armor suggested he was ready to fight off a bandit raid, yet here he was, behind a counter and pouring drinks. Eawynn stood on her toes, and leaned against the the bar, trying to get his attention.

“Is it too late for food?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the din. 

“We’ve got cheese and bread, if it suits you,” the Nord said, grabbing a plate. He barely even looked at her.

“That’ll be fine. And a glass of your house wine,” she glanced at Cicero, who was waiting patiently behind her, “Oh, and two rooms for the night, please.” 

“Thirty-two gold,” he said, filling a flagon of ale for a sturdy drunk woman, practically spilling out of her bodice.

Eawynn fished around in her leather purse. She’d have to remember to get Nazir to reimburse her for the extra room. While she counted out her payment, the Nord looked out over the crowd, shaking his head as if he were disappointed, then held out his hand for her to drop the coins into. He didn’t bother counting the money before tucking it in his belt.

“You think they’d have something better to do,” said the handsome man, shaking his head in disgust. Eawynn thought it was a strange thing to say.

“Do you own this place?” she asked as he filled her cup. “I only ask because you look more like a sell-sword than an innkeeper.” Eawynn was genuinely curious; she'd never seen a man more out of place behind a counter. It didn’t help that he was drop-dead gorgeous. 

The Nord’s eyes lit up when she pointed out his attire. “Right? I’m ready to get out from under this town and explore the world, but my dad Mralki owns the inn. As long as he’s here, I’m stuck in Rorikstead, working for him. Most days he just has me working on the farm, but the old man doesn’t like tending the bar on rowdy nights, so here I am,” he said with a shrug, filling two more pints of mead for a couple of shouting patrons. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, putting her gold on the bar, “If it makes you feel any better, I know what you feel like. It took a lot of courage for me to leave home. My parents didn’t exactly approve of what I wanted to do either.” The Breton took a sip of wine. Her own domineering parents hadn’t approved of _anything._ She’d run off to join the Mage’s College in Winterhold just to get away from them, going so far as to lie about her age so they’d let her join. Those days seemed so far behind her now. 

“That sounds exactly like what I’m going through. You’ll have to tell me about how you got away! How long are you staying?” he pushed his blond hair back and leaned over the bar. Their eyes met, and suddenly Eawynn had the urge to extend their stay.

“Only one night, sadly. We leave in the morning,” she said, almost disappointed. All at once, the Breton decided that she wouldn’t mind getting to know Rorickstead a little better. 

“That’s a pity,” the Nord said with a sigh, looking her up and down, “The pretty ones never stay long.” He gave her an uneven smile that set her heart fluttering, and handed her a plate of food. “The name’s Erik,” he said with a wink. “Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Cicero held the knapsack with both arms, hugging it close to his body. He said nothing as Eawynn handed him some of the bread and cheese. 

“This is his room,” Erik said, nodding to the Jester who stared daggers back at the fair-haired Nord. 

Sensing trouble, Eawynn tucked some bread and cheese on top of the knapsack, and ushered him inside. “Go on, I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, pushing him in the room and closing the door. The last thing she needed was Cicero getting in the way of what might be a much-needed release. It crossed her mind that the Jester might be jealous, but she quickly squashed that thought. The idea that Cicero was interested in her seemed preposterous. 

“I said, he’s a little strange,” Erik repeated himself as he opened a second door.

“Oh, yeah. He is. Sorry, it’s been a long day.” Eawynn hadn’t been paying attention. Cicero’s sudden silence had unnerved her, but she quickly put it aside. 

“A long day, huh?” Erik asked, stretching his arm across the doorframe and blocking the entrance to her room. “So I reckon you want to get right to sleep then.”

She was right. The Nord _was_ flirting with her. “Well, I always have trouble sleeping when I’m on the road. I imagine I’ll be up for a couple of hours at least, bored to tears.”

Erik bit his lip, and raised an eyebrow. “You sure your friend won’t mind if I keep you company? He didn’t look too happy that you asked for separate rooms…”

“He’s a bit eccentric, but he’s nice, don’t worry. There’s no way he’ll know. The two of us are business partners,” Eawynn stepped closer, but the Nord didn’t move.

“And what kind of business is that?” he asked, looking down at her. By the Nine, she was ready to rip his armor right off of his body, but instead she only smiled up at him coyly.

“Why don’t you come in, and I’ll show you?” she asked, biting her lip.

“Erik!” someone shouted from the bar, “We’re thirsty! Stop flirting and get us another pint!” 

“You know where the mead is, get it yourself!” the Nord shouted back as he pulled Eawynn into the room, smiling wolfishly as he closed the door behind them. 

_By Dibella,_ Eawynn thought, as she let the stranger lead her to the bed. She needed this tonight.


	2. The Binding Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There are some non-con elements in this chapter, so if that’s triggering for you please proceed with caution! <3 Also I meant to post this last week, but work has been very busy! The next few chapters are written, I just need to edit them!! As always, I hope you all enjoy~~

Cicero paced back and forth in his small room. He was supposed to protect the Listener— he didn’t like letting her out of his sight, and he definitely didn’t like the way the snot-nosed Nordling had been leering at her. The Jester knew impure intentions when he saw them, and the Nord had them in spades.

Placing their bags carefully down on the bed, the Jester pressed his ear to the wall. He strained to hear what was happening in the next room, but the stone was too thick, and the voices from the bar were too loud. Oh, _no._

Quickly, he looked around the room. Windows ran the length of the wall, high up and close to the ceiling. It gave him an idea. Casting off his hat, Cicero ran out of his room. The drunken patrons hardly gave him a second glance as he scampered towards the door, almost falling as he rounded the corner.

Once outside, the Jester ran the length of the Inn until he found the corner room that he presumed the Listener had been ushered into. As tall as the Imperial was, there was no way he could reach the windows on his own. Using all of his strength, he dragged a large crate against the wall, then stacked some barrels on top of it. 

With the balance of a cat, Cicero climbed to the top and looked into the room, horrified by what he saw. He was too late.

The Listener was on her knees in front of the half-dressed Nord, servicing the imbecile in ways she should be servicing her Keeper. He felt bile rising in his throat, furious at this ingrate of an Innkeeper for daring to touch her. The man’s fingers were in her hair, his grip tightening along with the knot in Cicero’s stomach. Something had to be done… _but what?_

As distressed as he was, Cicero placed his hands on the window to better see the situation. The Nordling was clearly enjoying himself, moving his hips as her head bobbed up and down. From this angle, the Jester could easily see how much of his dick she was taking into her mouth, and the sight of it enraged and aroused him at the same time. He couldn’t begrudge the Listener though— after all, he knew she was aching for a good fuck. Cicero began rubbing his shaft through his pants. He was jealous, to be sure— but a part of him wanted to see her get stuffed full of the Nord’s dick. 

Before too long the Listener stood up and unlaced her bodice, letting her dress fall to the floor. The idiot Nord fondled her breasts, sloppily sucking on them before throwing her forcefully onto the bed. A surge of blood rushed to the Jester’s cock when he saw the lust in her eyes. It wouldn’t be long until she looked at him like that, he just had to have patience.

Cicero licked his lips and shoved his hand into his britches. He had just begun to stroke his length when the Nord climbed on top of her, working to undo his britches. Was he really going to stick it in without giving her any pleasure first? The incompetent fool! It should be him in there, not this snotty Innkeeper’s son.

He watched with dismay as the Nord unceremoniously lined up his cock with her entrance, pushing himself quickly inside. Cicero wanted to bang on the glass, shout and scream, and scare the man off into the night. He would chase after the Nordling, and laugh as he slit his throat. 

Instead, the Jester just watched helplessly as the Nord penetrated her, selfishly thrusting away while ignoring the poor Listener’s pleasure. The disappointment she felt was reflected clearly on her face, and Cicero saw _all_ of it.

It was no surprise when the buffoon didn’t last long. He pulled out after two minutes, spilling his seed all over her stomach. He topped it off with a sloppy kiss, not even bothering to help clean her off. They exchanged pleasantries, and, after pulling up his pants, the Nord left as quickly as he’d cum. 

Cicero took no pleasure in watching the Listener clean herself off with the blanket. When she had wiped herself clean, she threw it to the side and closed her eyes. She tried in vain to bring herself to a climax, but he knew she was too frustrated to finish. Instead, she tossed back the last of her wine, blew out the candles, and rolled over to sleep.

“There, there,” the Jester whispered as he stroked her face under the glass. “Just you wait. Your Keeper will make it all better soon.” 

Cicero stood watch as she fell asleep, standing on top of that barrel for what felt like an hour. The air was chilly, and he shivered as he watched the patrons slowly leave for the night. It was cold, and his legs were getting sore, but he stayed until he was sure the fool Nordling had gone to bed. The Keeper was always vigilant. When all was quiet and the inn went, Cicero unhooked the window and silently swung it open.

The lean Imperial fit easily through the aperture. With incredible ease, the Jester lowered himself silently into the moonlit room and silently dropped to the floor. He felt the pull to be close to his Listener, and so he slowly crept to the side of her bed. Tonight she slept in the nude, her dress and undergarments strewn about the floor where she’d disrobed for the Nord. Cicero’s gaze lingered on her parted lips, watching as she breathed. His eyes slowly trailed down her neck to study her breasts, pink nipples hard in the cool night air. This was the closest he’d ever been to her naked form. His hand reflexively went to his cock, pulling at it through his trousers. The Listener was so close, he could almost smell her. 

Lowering the top of his pants, he took out his cock and stared at her under it. She would like it, he thought as he began to tug on it. He’d _make_ her like it. 

His hand moved faster as he jerked himself off, squeezing at the head of his shaft. His mind was racing, tuning through every scenario he could think of— in the Sanctuary, standing above her in the closet and fucking her mouth. No, not that way. Chained up in a Draugr crypt, bent over a tomb with his cock in her ass… No, too mouldy. What if he fucked her tits as she’s smothered in mammoth cheese? Too expensive, again no. 

Oh, but wait! He’d have her on top of the bar, in front of the bratty Nord and every other stinking patron in the inn! Yes, that’s it! He’d make them all hold her down, show them just how it was done. She’d call out the Keeper’s name over and over. Yes, just like that. He’d stick an empty bottle in her cunt and make her fill it with juices as he sucked her clit. His mouth began to water as he thought about drinking it all down, every drop. He’d blindfold her and gag her, and make her climax so many times she’d beg him to stop—

With a lurch and a silent gasp, Cicero came all over the blanket. He squeezed at his length until he’d milked every drop, thankful that he had this opportunity to be so close to his Listener. The idea of sliding himself between her lips crossed his mind, but he shook his head.

“ _Patience,_ ” he thought to himself, “ _the day is almost here. Mother won’t make me wait much longer._ ” Satisfied that the little Nord wouldn’t try anything else tonight, he shoved himself back in his pants and wiped off his hands. 

Before lifting himself back through the window, the Jester picked up her discarded smallclothes and tucked them into his doublet with a smile. He whistled a little tune as he strode back into the inn, happy to see that almost everyone had cleared out for the night.

The Nordling nodded at him as he cleaned off the top of the bar, and Cicero waved back with a wide grin.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” the Jester asked, wondering how mad the Listener would be if he were to accidentally kill the brat in his sleep.

“It certainly is,” the Innkeeper replied, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing more. With an incredible show of restraint, Cicero went back to his room. That night he slept soundly, the Listener’s undergarments tucked safely beneath his pillow. 

* * *

Eawynn put her hands on her hips as she looked around the small room, cursing under her breath.

“Shit, where the hell are my smallclothes?” she muttered, checking under the nightstand. Her eyes rolled as she remembered the eager Nord she bedded the previous night. What did he say his name was...? Erik. By Sheor, had she misjudged that situation. Their rutting had given her no pleasure— he hadn’t even offered to finish her off! He was in dire need of experience, and he wasn’t going to get it hanging around the Frostfruit Inn, that’s for damn sure. She’d had high hopes for him too. What a disappointment. 

The Breton pulled on her dress, pulling tightly on the laces of her bodice. Without undergarments she felt strangely exposed, but decided for the time being nobody would notice. 

After making herself presentable, she turned over the blanket so that the dried cum stains weren’t visible. The sooner she could put this night behind her, the better. With any luck, she’d find someone in Morthral who’d actually be able to get her off. 

The man behind the counter that morning was an older bald Nord wearing a stern expression. This must be Erik’s father, she thought to herself. He eyed her with suspicion that she felt was probably deserved. 

“Mralki, right? Your inn has very comfortable beds,” Eawynn said, trying her best to be genial. “My companion and I enjoyed our stay very much.” 

“As long as you don’t cause trouble, you’re welcome back any time,” the man grunted. 

“Your son Erik—,” she started.

“Let me guess,” Mralki interrupted, slamming a dirty rag down on the bar. “The silly boy asked you to take him with you when you leave?” His laugh came out as a snort. “Look— my son means well, but his head is off in the clouds. He doesn’t understand that his place is here, on the farm!” The Innkeeper tapped the wooden counter for emphasis. “My boy’s place is here, at home. Not off on some foolish adventure.” 

“For one, your son _definitely_ isn’t a boy anymore,” she raised an eyebrow, hoping he would catch her drift. “He has a lot to learn. The best thing you could do for him is to give him your blessing and let him have the life he wants. He’s more likely to come back home if you don’t force him to run away.” 

“Don’t tell me how to raise my son,” Marlki snapped, but she could tell he knew she was right. Eawynn pressed on. 

“When I left my home it was under the cover of darkness. I told no one my plans, and almost fell to my death trying to scale down the outside walls of our home in Markarth. All that just to get away from my parents,” she spoke quietly, “Do you know how many times I’ve gone back to visit them?” 

The old man looked up at her, his rigid expression slowly falling. “I know you’re probably right,” he said, “but I don’t know if I’m ready.” 

“Talk to him about it,” Eawynn encouraged him. “At least then, if he does run off with a mysterious stranger, you’ll know he’ll come back to you.” The old Innkeeper said nothing to this, and she turned and walked away. She normally wouldn’t involve herself in the business of complete strangers, but something about Erik had struck a chord in her. That, and thinking of him bedding another hopeful young woman— no, he needed an education she knew he would never find in this village.

Dawn was breaking as the door to the Inn closed behind her. The Breton knew it wasn’t her place to interfere with their family business, but she couldn’t help but see a little bit of herself in the young Nord. Sure, life hadn’t been easy when she’d decided to run away, but it was a hell of a lot better than what her parents had planned for her— an arranged marriage to the ancient Steward of Markarth, or, if she refused, servitude to the Thalmor. The interest her family showed in her had been solely about what upwards mobility she could provide them. 

Marrying the Steward would have secured their place in Markarth as part of a new rising class of merchants, but it wasn’t what she’d wanted. And the Thalmor— she shivered in the cool morning air. The Altmer had an advisor at the College of Winterhold as well. She remembered the firm touch of of his golden skin on hers, her breath hitching involuntarily. Swallowing hard, Eawynn pushed the thought of the Thalmor back down. All that was in the past, and it would stay there.

Strange how a chance encounter with an eager young Nord had brought up so many old memories. She hoped that the handsome young man would find his place in the world, somewhere far from Rorikstead. Eawynn knew he wasn’t bad— just inexperienced. In any case, she was glad she didn’t run into him on her way out. 

Cicero was at the stable, murmuring to Sweetroll as he fed the stallion a large carrot. He immediately stopped talking when he saw her approach, and the two of them looked at her conspiratorially as she approached. She only hoped that he was in a better mood than he was last night. Seeing him so dangerously quiet had unnerved her.

“Ready to go?” the Breton asked, pleased that he already had their bags secured on the horse.

“Humble Cicero is always ready,” he removed his hat and bowed deeply, looking up at her from under his brow, “you have only but to ask.” 

Eawynn was glad to see he was back in a good mood this morning. He may dress like a jester, but he was no fool— and almost certainly was aware of what had transpired last night. She now regretted being charmed by the young Nord, wishing instead that she’d spent the night alone. Lifting a foot to the stirrup, she made to mount the saddle.

“Ah, ah, aah,” Cicero wagged a finger at her as if she had done something wrong. “Allow me, my Listener,” he said, as he grabbed her by the hips. Eawynn felt his long fingers spread over her as he hoisted her up, and she wondered if he could tell she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. The thought was almost thrilling, but she tampered it down.

He swung his leg and hopped up easily behind her, settling himself into the saddle with a wiggle. With a click of the reins, Sweetroll started into a trot and they made their way out of the dreary town. The way north to Morthal wasn’t as long as the previous day’s ride, but it was dangerous.

The first leg of their journey went by easily, with Cicero singing merrily behind her. She indulged herself by joining in on a chorus or two, adding a harmony to the Jester’s voice. He had a surprisingly fine voice, and she wondered if the Night Mother hadn’t called on him, if he would have ended up a bard. He was certainly theatrical enough. Eawynn almost thought to ask him, but before she could open her mouth, he whispered in her ear.

“Let’s play a game,” he said, his words making the skin along her spine tingle. His hands on her waist tightened, and she thought for a moment he might bite her ear until she remembered that it was probably smart that they kept their voices down. The Breton had been keeping an eye on their surroundings, but so far the trip had been quiet. A game couldn’t hurt, as long as they kept their voices down. The last thing they wanted to do was draw attention to themselves.

“Fine,” Eawynn agreed, trying to keep her voice steady. “What game should we play?” Something about the Jester’s whisper had excited her, but there was no way she was going to let it show.

“It’s a game called, ‘Guess What Cicero Has in His Pocket,’” the Jester murmured. Eawynn could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke the words, “The Listener will ask ten questions, Yes or No only. Does she understand?” 

Eawynn nodded her head. “It’s a game of deduction.” 

“The Listener is so clever,” he whispered. “The Keeper will go first: Guess what Cicero has in his pocket?”

The game was silly, but she played along. It wasn’t like there was anything better to do. “Is it alive?” She asked, thinking it might be a small bird or rodent he picked up. He was certainly strange enough to keep a live bird in his pocket.

“No,” the Jester answered. 

It was probably a rock. Or a dead bird. “Is it natural, or manmade?” 

“Tsk tsk. That’s not a yes or no question,” he chided. “Rephrase, please.”

“Is it natural, then,” she went with.

“No, it’s manmade,” he giggled.

So it wasn’t a rock. Maybe dice from the tavern? “Is it hard?” 

“No. Indeed, it is very soft,” he almost purred the words. “Silky soft.”

“Is it light?” she asked.

“No, it’s dark.” His fingers spread around her waist again as he whispered, “Black silk.”

“I meant, does it weigh—,” the Breton stopped short, her face turning a bright shade of red as her body grew warm in embarrassment. The Jester was holding her damned smallclothes!! 

“Give them back,” Eawynn demanded, her embarrassment turning quickly to anger.

“Give what back? Aren’t you going to guess what it is?” 

“My undergarments. I don’t know how you got them—,” she was furious. Cicero didn’t help at all by dangling them in front of her face, then snatching them away when she went to grab them.

“Finders keepers,” he murmured in her ear. 

“Cicero, this isn’t funny! How did you get them?” She demanded, twisting around to look at him. 

“Somebody must have dropped them on the floor of the Inn,” he said simply, but Eawynn wasn’t sure she believed him. “And watchful Cicero noticed the Listener wasn’t wearing any when he helped her up this morning.” She could hear the smile in his voice as she turned around to face the road. She was livid.

“Then I thank you for picking them up, but now I request that you return them immediately,” she tried to keep her voice low, but her tone was getting sharper. “If you don’t give them back then I’ll—,”

All of a sudden Sweetroll reared up, winnieing in fright. Eawynn was thrown off the side and rolled back so the giant beast wouldn’t trample her. The stallion bolted in fright, and she heard Cicero howling at the frightened beast as it galloped away, the Jester clinging to its back.

Finding her bearings, she saw an arrow hit the ground in front of her, and watched in horror as a band of Forsworn ravagers charged from over the ridge. A crackle of lightning flashed in her hand as she quickly rose to her feet, and she sent one of the reavers sailing backwards with a bolt.

An arrow pinged off her mage armour as she ducked a blow from an iron sword, grabbing the feral woman and setting her on fire. As screams of the burning warrior filled the air Eawynn cursed herself for letting the Jester distract her. She should have seen this ambush coming!

Her mage armor was taking a lot of damage— she knew it wasn’t going to hold out much longer. For every Forsworn she knocked down, two more seemed to take their place. There were far too many of them, and even though she was holding them at bay with a torrent of ice spikes, the Breton knew it wouldn’t be long before they overwhelmed her. When she felt something hard hit the back of her head, she knew that moment had come. Then everything went black. 

The first thing Eawynn noticed when she eventually came to was the throbbing in her head. She struggled, but couldn’t move— they’d tied her to a wooden structure of some sort, arms above her head and legs bound together beneath her. Eawynn tried to open her eyes, but one of them was crusted shut with what she assumed was her own blood. Nine Hells. This was the last thing she needed.

Blinking up at the sun she concluded she’d been out for several hours. It was a small camp— she must have taken out five or six of them, but there were still several Forsworn around that she could see. She struggled against the bindings as one of them approached her, her throat too dry and ragged to scream. Using so much magic had dehydrated her, and left her weak and rasping.

The Forsworn woman that approached her was tall, lithe and beautiful, in a farel kind of way. Her leather armor was pieced together from scraps, not leaving much to the imagination. Eagle feathers were braided into her raven black hair, shapes that were echoed in the strange markings tattooed down her body. The woman leaned in and sniffed at Eawynn’s neck.

“We could keep this one around for a while,” she called out. “She smells fresh.” Some of the reavers cheered, while others booed, shouting instead for her death. Make up your damn mind, she thought— but she knew this was all part of the spectacle. Nothing like some public humiliation before an execution to boost troop morale. 

Eawynn tried to conjure a bolt of lightning, but her head throbbed with pain as the magick fizzled out in her hand. The woman grabbed the top of her bodice and pulled, ripping her dress down the middle. She grabbed both of her breasts and squeezed, then backhanded her across the face. Eawynn saw double for a moment, but quickly regained her focus and stared coldly back at her. The Breton’s will was an iron cage, and she’d be damned before she let this motley band of scavengers break her. Nine Hells, if her throat wasn’t so parched she’d have spit.

“What’s wrong,” she teased, pinching her nipple, “not in the mood?” 

“Vula,” someone behind her barked, “step aside. The wench is mine.” The voice was gruff, like rocks falling off a cliff, the sound of which made Eawynn’s stomach drop. 

The Forsworn woman hissed, but backed down. In her place stepped a man that turned the very blood in her veins to ice. He wore a large headdress made of antlers and animal skins, and on his chest was a gaping wound where his heart should be. His beard was matted, and blood trailed down from his mouth staining a red streak down to his stomach. 

As he stepped closer, Eawynn tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes were black in their sockets. She knew there must be a man under there, but whether living or dead she couldn’t discern— that’s when she knew what this monstrosity was: _A Briarheart._

She’d always thought it was a monster made up to scare children of the Reach, cautionary tales to stop them from venturing too far from their parents' sight. Eawynn certainly had never seen one before now, and they were even more terrifying than the legends she’d heard growing up. It was impossible to tell where his body ended and where the headdress began, or if it was a perverse extension of his own body.

Even though the Briarheart stood a few feet from her, the Breton could already smell him— sweet and putrid, like the carcass of a rotting deer in the woods. She watched in dismay as he ripped his loincloth off, then turned her head to the side when she saw the monster’s veiny cock. It was an abomination. 

Reaching out with a clammy hand, he grabbed her face and turned it back towards him, forcing her to behold the bone piercings that ran down the back of it’s length. Each bar was studded with a hook-like claw, and the sight of it sent the Bosmer into a cold sweat. This man was going to tear her apart.

She squirmed against her bindings as the Briarheart pressed his body against hers. His foul stench assaulted her nose as she stared at the faintly glowing briar in his chest. It was pulsing. He shoved two of his rancid fingers in her mouth, and when the Breton bit down the fiend didn’t even react. It was only after her teeth pierced his skin that she realized: dead men don’t bleed. 

Spitting with disgust, she squirmed in vain against the bindings that held her as his lips sucked at her breast, biting her nipple until it hurt. A pathetic whine escaped Eawynn’s lips, and she hated herself for making the noise. At that, the Briarheart gave her a dead smile, then lifted up what remained of her dress, spreading her legs apart with his knee. They were still tied together at the ankles, but he forced them open enough to press his length between her thighs. His piercings scraped at her soft skin, and she jammed her eyes shut as the tip of his aberrant, modified phallus pressed against her entrance. Slowly, the creature began pushing the head of his engorged cock inside her. 

“No,” she choked out the word, her voice a death rattle. Then there was the sound of skin breaking, and all at once the hulking man fell forward, the point of a dagger sticking through the front of his neck.

Eawynn cried out in surprise and relief as the vile Briarheart crumpled to the ground at her feet. She looked up to Vula, only to see blood erupt as the woman’s throat was slit ear to ear. The attack was so vicious, so visceral— the Forsworn woman looked to her, eyes wide in shock as she fell forward.

“Hail Sithis,” Eawynn hissed as she watched the woman die.

The Forsworn erupted into shrieks of war as they tried to find their attackers. Eawynn struggled, trying frantically to undo the knots, but felt her breath grow shallow. Darkness began to creep in at the edge of her vision, and she began to panic as her jaw clamped and her muscles became suddenly rigid. The frenzied cries of the ravagers grew muffled as the Breton’s pale green eyes rolled back in her head. It was always the same when the Night Mother spoke, and Eawynn had no choice but to Listen. Soon all went quiet, and she was enveloped by the black waters of the dead. 

_“Do not worry, my sweet child,”_ the Night Mother’s voice slithered through the darkness, crawling up her neck. _“He is coming for you.”_

“Who is coming?” she heard herself ask, but the Breton already knew the answer.

The words curled into her ear, _“My faithful servant, my Keeper, my Cicero. I guided him back to kill those who would try and maltreat you.”_

The Listener shivered as the wraithlike voice trickled slowly down her spine, _“You once spoke the Binding Words— now the time has come to heed them. From the moment of your meeting, you destinies have been linked. Open yourself to the Keeper, and exalt in the glory of Sithis.”_

“It will be done as you command,” Eawynn’s own words echoed around her, and the light gradually returned. It was always the same when the Night Mother spoke to her, and the Breton shivered as her senses and movement returned. 

Bodies of the Forsworn lay dead where they once stood, blood and viscera soaking into the dirt below them. In the center of the slaughter stood Cicero, back to her as he gripped a bloody knife. A butcher, a jester, a fool, and her Keeper. Eawynn’s heart leapt at the sight of him.

“Cicero…,” she rasped in relief, “You came back for me.” 

He took off his hat and held it to his chest as he spun around to face her. On his face was an expression of reverence, and in his hand was the glowing briar. He casually tossed it aside.

“Oh, my poor Listener,” he said, nearing her side, “Loyal Cicero came as soon as he could, but the stubborn, stupid horse wouldn’t turn around.” 

He brought his waterskin to her lips and she drank, lapping up the cool liquid that poured out of it. It dribbled out of her mouth and chilled her neck and breasts as her thirst was quenched. She didn’t care how it looked as she sucked the skin dry, she was only thankful that she was safe.

“Thank you,” she said finally, licking the last of the water off her lips.

Throwing the now fully-dead body of the Briarheart to the side, the Jester dropped to his knees and cut off the bindings that held her legs in place. “Did they hurt my sweet Listener?” he asked, rubbing the raw skin at her ankles, “If they hurt but a hair on her precious head, valiant Cicero will kill them all a second time.” 

“I’m fine, it’s nothing that won’t heal,” Eawynn breathed. “You were just in time.” His touch felt good, soothing.

The Night Mother’s words echoed in the back of her mind. Were she and the Keeper truly bound together? It made sense— she was the Listener, after all. But giving herself to him, was that truly what the Dread Father had intended?

She looked down at the Fool as he lovingly caressed her. From this vantage, Eawynn could appreciate how handsome he was. His heavy lidded eyes darkened as he gazed up at her, his wide, thin lips curling into a smile. In the shadows of the Sanctuary she had always thought his hair brown, but here in the sun it glistened a reddish copper. Why had she never seen him like this before? 

As he slid his hand up the side of her calf, the Breton became aware of the heat welling between her legs. His large hands slid up her tattered skirts, up the side of her leg as he lifted it, running his tongue along the inside of her thigh, leading a thin trail of saliva up her leg. 

“Listener,” he growled, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Let me in.” 

Something fluttered in her chest as she finally understood how much she ached for the Keeper. Bound and disheveled as she was, Eawynn took a breath and obeyed the command of Sithis.


End file.
